Err, I intended to write a bit of fluff. It is in there...somewhere! Hope you enjoy.
He leans back in his chair, his fingertips massaging his temples. After thirteen hours straight on the Grid, he is bone weary, with a thumping headache that is beginning to make him feel nauseous. In the absence of any painkillers he propels himself over to the cabinet behind him and pours a hefty measure of Laphroaig, which he downs in one.
'Many happy returns, Harry,' he mutters sourly. This makes the little barb of disappointment jab at his consciousness again; the realisation that Ruth has either forgotten his birthday, or deliberately ignored it. He is not sure which is worse. The disappointment is made more acute by the fact that he'd thought that post-Albany things were better between them; not quite as they had been before Cyprus, but evidently the realisation that she might never see him again had forced her to admit that her feelings for him had not faded, merely become buried under a weight of guilt and anger and grief.
On his return he had seen her tears, and assumed they were for Lucas. On the pretext of cleaning up the gash on his forehead he had headed straight for the gents and thrown up til his cramping stomach could yield no more. And there she'd found him, slumped over the toilet bowl, cheeks wet with quiet tears. He'd been too exhausted to feel mortified, and had let her kneel behind him. He'd heard her apologise, and felt her hand, tentatively at first, rubbing his back. When she'd insisted he get checked out at the hospital, he hadn't had the strength to argue, and despite everything, when he finally got the all clear to go home, his heart had lifted at the sight of her anxiously pacing the reception area, waiting for him.
In the months since then there'd been the inquiry, convened so quickly he suspected they'd been building their case for years. It had lasted for three weeks; Harry, Towers, and a gratifying number of colleagues past and present steadily demolishing and discrediting the evidence against him, amid oblique allusions to skeletons less than well buried. His wrist showily slapped, the ultimate inevitability of his return to the Grid had been assured by the intensification of chatter about a country-wide eco-terrorist campaign, and since then all of them had barely had time to draw breath far less give any thought to their lives outwith Thames House.
As he reaches again for the bottle he hears his door slide open. At this hour there's only one person it can be.
'Hey.'
'Ruth.' He pours. 'Join me?'
She shakes her head. 'No, thanks.' She stands just inside the door, fidgeting with a sheet of paper, as he takes a circumspect sip.
'What's wrong?'
'Form for you to sign.' She's still clutching it.
He holds his hand out.
'It's an S24.'
A Permission for Socialisation form.
His hand drops, ever so slightly, then his fingers close around the sheet of paper.
'Good, I'm glad, Ruth. It's about time you had a reason to leave work before midnight.' His lips twitch into all he can manage of a smile. 'You're a good judge of character; I'm sure he's...eminently suitable.'
His fingers scrabble on the desk for his pen and his eyes drop to the line for his signature. Somehow his hand traces the words. Harry Pearce.
'Harry, read it.'
Do you really think I want to read about the man you want to share your life with, your bed?
'No need. I'll pass it on to HR in the morning.'
'Harry, read the damn form.'
Reluctantly, his eyes flick to the top of the page.
1. What is your name and department?
Ruth Evershed, Senior Intelligence Analyst, Section D
2. What is the full name of the person you wish to socialise with?
Henry James Pearce (known as Harry)
3. What is his / her profession?
Hang on.
2. What is the full name of the person you wish to socialise with?
Henry James Pearce (known as Harry)
His lips are moving, but no sound emerges. Then finally, 'This is the form for...liaison with civilians, Ruth. Do you know something I don't?'
A flash of dimpled smile. 'Things have been so manic of late, we've never had the chance to talk. This was quick, and easy, and I figured that finding the form on my desk in the morning with a big 'REJECTED' stamp on it would be slightly less traumatic than asking you face to face only for you to have security escort me off the premises.'
'But you did ask me face to face. Sort of.'
She waves her hand in the direction of the form. 'I filled it in weeks ago, just couldn't pluck up the courage to...and then today, well, I thought if giving you the form didn't make your birthday, it would at least make it memorable.'
'You remembered.'
'Of course I remembered. Which rather brings me to my other reason for coming in here now. I thought tonight might be good for our first..what did you call it?...liaison. I booked a table at that French restaurant you like.'
He's just staring at her.
'We...we should probably go now. If you're coming. Which you might not be. Because you haven't said yes. To that. Or to me. So to speak.'
His eyes never leaving her face he stands.
'French sounds good. But there's something I have to do first.'
'Right. Right. Well, one out of two ain't...'
Her words are lost as he tilts her chin up, and finally his lips meet hers.